A link to the world outside.
The first one since his capture.
His eyes searched for the date.
Wednesday, October 5, 1994
Seven years and two months.
He'd been here seven years, two months, and three days.
He'd tried to count the days as they'd passed, tried to mark the seasons. He'd reached 2559 days and thought it was mid summer. He'd lost a couple of months.
Actually, he'd lost seven years.
He scooped up the food and the bottle and took it away from the door.
He sat down against the back wall, arched his knees, unfolded the paper ...
... and began to read.
Absorb.
Devour.
||_||
And above him, Lois watched through a deluge of silent tears.
Part 6
Lois turned away from the window to snatch a fistful of tissues. She dabbed at the spreading sogginess, but her eyes didn't move from the figure sitting against the back wall of the cell.
He didn't look significantly different from any worker who could be seen around the city at lunchtime. He had carefully unrolled his food from the plastic wrap - another indication that he was fully cognisant of the practicalities of Western culture - and was eating while engrossed in the pages of the newspaper.
It looked so normal.
And it was so abhorrently *abnormal*.
Could she be sure that he was actually reading?
Lois picked up the binoculars and peered through the pelt of his shaggy dark hair, trying to track the movement of his eyes.
He certainly *appeared* to be reading.
His eyes darted back and forth as if he were skimming rather than reading for detail. However, that was what she would expect. That was what *she'd* do if she'd been out of touch with the world for seven years.
If he was *reading*, that changed everything.
Even if - she quickly skipped over the thought - even if the repeated bashings to his head had somehow impaired his ability to speak ... if he could read, she could communicate with him.
Could he also write? Is so, he could communicate with her.
He could answer her questions - questions about his life before he'd been condemned to this hellhole.
Questions about Trask. And Moyne. And what they'd done when no one else was here.
Lois picked up another of Trask's books of research. So far, she had skimmed through four in total - and found nothing. It was unbelievable that a man could write so much and say so little.
This book wasn't scientific - in fact, as Lois quickly realised, it was the delusional ranting of a too-active imagination. This book was devoted to a treatise on the alien's *powers*. Flicking through, she discovered a catalogue of bizarre claims.
The prisoner could - according to Trask - fly.
He could see through walls - unless they were lined with lead.
He was strong enough to bend steel with his hands.
And could move fast enough to be just a blur when he crossed a room.
He could float - in utter defiance of gravity.
And he intended to use all of these extraordinary powers in his Big Plan to Conquer the World.
Which begged the question - how had mere men managed to keep this super-powered modern-day Goliath under lock and key for seven years?
According to Trask, that was where the Achilles - an alien substance - came in mighty handy. It stripped the invader of his *powers* and reduced him to a substantially weakened state.
Lois tossed the book onto the desk in disgust.
Trask's conjecture was neither original nor particularly inspired. Depict the enemy as being less than human, impute him with strange and frightening powers mixed with the rabid intention of evil, sprinkle liberally with paranoia, and convince yourself - and others - that the sordid concoction excused the most repugnant of atrocities.
But Trask was dead.
And Lois's mission was to ensure that the prisoner remained locked in his cell.
Regardless of truth.
Or justice.
Or human rights.
Her training had schooled her to believe that her primary responsibility was to follow orders - that the big-picture rights and wrongs were not the concern of the individual operative. In most cases, the agent on the ground knew only one small part of a complex and far-reaching operation.
It was foolish to make decisions based on limited facts.
Foolish ... and sometimes fatal. Fatal for you ... fatal for those who worked alongside you.
But this ...
This was barbarous.
Lois stared at the prisoner - he'd finished eating. His forearm was draped over his bended knee. The water bottle hung from his hand, and he periodically sipped as he continued reading the Daily Planet.
Who was he?
She knew what she'd witnessed in the past three days.
She also knew that making a judgment on incomplete information went against every precept of being a good agent.
And a long-lived one.
It was imperative that she find out more.
Because this was not something that she could simply walk away from when the time came to resume her active career.
This was something she couldn't escape - it would stay with her.
There would come a time when she would have to make a stand.
To fight for his rights. Or to accept that - for the safety of humankind - he had to remain caged like an animal.
But she couldn't do either without knowing more.
And it wasn't just knowledge that she needed. It was truth.
Who had the truth?
Who could she trust to give her the truth?
No one.
The precepts of being a agent ...
Trust no one.
Gather information systematically.
Assume nothing.
Give nothing away.
This had become far more than an assignment. This went deeper.
This transcended *him* and became about *her*.
And about whether, this time, she could get it right.
||_||
Lois walked into the staffroom and went to the coffee machine without comment to Shadbolt, whose nose was buried deep in a 'Sky and Telescope' magazine.
She added the milk to her coffee, stirred it, and sat down across the table from Shadbolt.
She sipped from the hot strong liquid - and the sound of her swallowing resonated loud in the silence.
After a minute of uncomfortable noiselessness, Shadbolt looked up with a scowl. "Do you want something?"
"Yes," Lois replied. "I want information."
"Ask Moyne. He was tighter with Trask than anyone else."
"I want to ask you."
Shadbolt slapped his magazine onto the table - which Lois took to be agreement.
"You've been here since one week after the capture?"
He nodded.
"What was Deller like?" she asked. "When did he join the operation?"
"He started a week after me. He was here for just over a year."
"What was he like?"
Shadbolt shrugged. "He did his job."
Lois sent him a frown of incredulity tempered with a glint of amusement. "You're an agent," she said. "And you're not dead. You *have* to be better at reading people than that."
He didn't smile, but the animosity of his scowl diminished a little. "Deller was like an angry dog. He never backed down, he had an opinion on everything, he always knew best, and he thought anyone who disagreed with him was an imbecile."
"Oh," Lois said with a wince. "How did that work with Trask?"
"Like gasoline and a naked flame."
"Would it be fair to say that Trask's job became easier after Deller's death?"
Shadbolt's scowl returned with full force. "No matter what Deller was, he didn't deserve to die like that."
"What about Bortolotto?" Lois asked. "Was he like Deller?"
Shadbolt reached forward and straightened the folded-over corner of the magazine page. "He was the exact opposite."
"How so?"
"Bortolotto was a quiet man - serious, introverted, anxious. I don't know what possessed him to get into this job. An even greater mystery is how he survived as long as he did."
"Why?"
"He had a fatal flaw - he believed the best of everyone. Moyne got great entertainment out of setting him up - stupid things like hiding his glasses or putting toy bugs in his sandwiches - but Bortolotto never once believed that Moyne meant him any ill."
"What did Bortolotto think of the prisoner?"
"He hated the job - you could tell. He hated using the rods because of what they did to the alien. In some ways, he was a bit like you. He wasn't convinced of the need to keep the alien weak and submissive." Shadbolt lifted his gaze and met her eyes. "He paid for that oversight with his life."
Ice-cold trepidation trickled the length of her spine. "Do you think that Bortolotto tried to communicate with the prisoner?"
"If he did, he was more stupid than I realised."
"Why?"
Shadbolt shuffled in his seat. "I believe that the beast on the other side of that door is an alien," he said solemnly. "I believe that he came here to kill and destroy."
"Trask believed those things."
"But the difference between us is that Trask wanted to believe that the alien is fundamentally a dumb brute. I don't believe that at all. I believe he is cunning ... sly ... manipulative ... always scheming. You asked me how he could have killed if Moyne had the rod. I'll tell you how - I'm not convinced that the rods have any effect on him. I think there is a good chance that he fakes the agony to lure us into thinking that we have the upper hand. I think he saw Deller's anger and Bortolotto's indulgence as weakness and struck them down."
"Did you tell Trask any of this?"
"Yes - but he couldn't stomach the idea that he'd been outsmarted by an alien. He wouldn't even consider the possibility of the rods having no effect. The reaction to the rods was crucial in proving he's an alien, and nothing was going to convince Trask otherwise."
"Why would the prisoner allow himself to be beaten if he could stop it?"
"Are you certain that aliens feel pain?"
"Yes," Lois asserted.
"Or he acts well."
"That doesn't explain why he would allow Moyne to attack him if he can stop it."
"He knows his fellow aliens are coming."
Lois clamped down on the grunt of ridicule that almost escaped. "You think more of them are coming?" she said, managing - she hoped - to make it sound like a serious question.
"I'm sure of it. And their first port of call will be here."
"Do you think they will take revenge?" Lois said, deliberately stifling the fear that wanted to fester in her heart. "For how we've treated one of them?"
"I don't think it will matter," Shadbolt said. "I think they will kill indiscriminately."
"If you believe that, why are you still here?"
"Because I have no choice."
"You could go to Scar -"
"What are *you* doing here?" Shadbolt challenged. "I've heard of the great Lois Lane. This is so petty compared to your usual assignments, I can only conclude that the higher-ups have finally realised the seriousness of this threat."
"That's not the reason," Lois said. "I have to be in Metropolis for personal reasons."
Shadbolt held her gaze for a long moment. "Then you should understand when I say I have no choice."
"Personal reasons?"
"Private reasons."
In other words, don't ask. Lois changed the subject. "What if he's just a human being who somehow got caught up in Trask's web?"
Shadbolt's face creased with alarm. "I can assure you he is *not* human," he said vehemently. "I have seen him levitate. I know he could see through these walls before Trask had them lined with lead. Despite the way he lives, he heals quickly - and none of his wounds ever leave scars."
"You've *seen* him levitate?"
"Trask called me up to his office one day. The alien was asleep. He'd risen off the floor and was hanging in the air."
"You *saw* him hang in mid-air?" Lois said.
Shadbolt was deadly serious. "If you make the mistake of thinking he is human, if you even think about whether he can be trusted, you will be making the final mistake of your life."
Shadbolt believed it.
He believed every word he was saying.
He stood abruptly and faced the door to the cell. "What the alien did to the bodies of Deller and Bortolotto was the work of a depraved animal." He turned, his face knotted with memories. "I don't want to have to drag your torn body out of that cell. What he'd do to you would make a horror movie look like Sesame Street."
Lois shot from the seat, almost spilling her coffee. "Thanks for the warning," she said as she backed away.
She climbed the stairs and went into her office.
The prisoner was washing the dried smears of toothpaste from the wall. He worked methodically and with purpose. Lois watched until he'd finished. He wrung out the cloth and used it to mop up a couple of little splashes near the base of the bucket.
Then he crossed to the middle of the cell and picked up the discarded toothbrush and tube. He continued to the far wall where he'd eaten his lunch and picked up the plastic wrapping. He put the three items in a neat pile near the door.
He picked up the bucket and took it behind the shoulder-height screen to empty it. Once he'd placed it near the door, he stood for a moment and perused the newly cleaned wall.
Apparently satisfied, he returned to the back wall, picked up the Daily Planet, sat down, and began to read.
||_||
In her office, Lois re-read Trask's claims about the extraordinary powers of the alien with new perspective. What if? Could it be possible?
He could *fly*?
If he did have all of those powers, the plan to take over the world wasn't so farfetched anymore. Particularly if there were others of his kind - equally powered - either here already or planning an invasion.
As she ate her lunch, Lois watched him - and it was no longer just observation, but study. Not just noting what he did, but propounding possible reasons why he might do it.
The running, the exercise, the push-ups ... did that represent a strategy of survival or a strategy of groundwork for future domination?
He was still scouring the newspaper - working through page after page - leaving nothing unread.
Was it merely interest in a world he had been forced to leave? Or something more ominous?
Longford arrived, but Lois waited until she heard Shadbolt leave the compound before going down the stairs to the staffroom. "Hi," she said.
Longford looked up from the book he was reading. "Hi."
He didn't immediately return his attention to his book, so Lois paused next to the table. "How long have you been with this operation?"
"Two and a half years."
"You replaced Bortolotto?"
"Yeah."
"Do you mind me asking why you were given this assignment? Did you ask for it?"
Longford twisted in his seat, straightened his leg towards her, and pulled up the leg of his pants.
Lois saw the prosthesis and gasped. "What happened?"
"Tried to stop a bullet with my leg," he replied easily. "It took a long time to get to a hospital, and by then the wound was too badly infected to save the leg."
Lois grimaced in sympathy. "Were you happy to get this assignment?"
Longford shrugged. "They figured I was too much of a liability to be given a real assignment, and my elderly mother lives about an hour away. It could be worse; I go and see her a couple of mornings a week."
"Have you ever had any problems with the prisoner? Has he ever attacked you?"
"No," Longford replied. "But I never go in there without a rod."
"Do you think the rods do actually hurt him? Or do you think he's faking his suffering?"
Longford folded his leg under the table again. "You've been talking to Shadbolt."
"Yes. What do you think?"
"I don't know," Longford said. "Moyne and Shadbolt have told me plenty - enough that there can't be any other conclusion than he's a savage killer."
"But?"
"But I've never seen any evidence of it."
"Have you ever seen any evidence of special powers?"
"No."
"Are you worried about the way I'm running this operation? Do you think that by stopping the discipline sessions I am increasing the risk when you go into the cell?"
Longford thought for a moment. "I don't know," he said. "I really don't know what to think."
"Would you go into the cell without a rod?"
"No," he said decisively. "Because I figure that by now, he has to have a lot of hatred built up. One day, it's going to explode." He gazed at the cell door for a long moment and then turned back to Lois. "Shadbolt said you took his key."
"Yes."
"Do you want mine?"
"Yes, please."
He reached into his pocket and removed the key ring.
"Do you trust Moyne?" Lois asked.
"No."
"Shadbolt?"
"Yes."
"Why?"
"Because Shadbolt says what he thinks. You might not like what he says, but he doesn't play games."
"And Moyne?"
"Moyne has been here a long time. He's seen a lot of things."
"But you don't trust him?"
"No, I don't." Longford removed the cell key from the ring and offered it to Lois.
"Thanks," she said as she took it. "How would you feel about swapping shifts with Moyne?"
He glanced sideways to the bed that was built into the area under the stairs. "It's fine with me, but he won't do it."
"How do you know?"
"Trask wanted us to swap. Moyne refused."
"Trask was supposed to run this operation."
"In theory - yes."
"Are you saying Moyne ran it?" Lois asked.
"I'm not saying anything other than I'm willing to swap shifts with Moyne - or Shadbolt for that matter. My mother doesn't care what time of the day I visit her."
"Thanks."
He picked up his book, and his eyes returned to the page.
"I'm going out for about an hour," Lois said.
"OK."
"I'll be back before his meal is delivered."
Longford grunted, but his eyes did not leave the book.
Lois turned and left the compound. The camera was recording, but she was confident that Longford posed no threat to the prisoner.
She wished she could be equally confident that the prisoner posed no threat to humanity.
||_||
"Hello, Ms Lane. You're here early."
Lois managed a synthetic smile. "I've started a new job. I can get away during the afternoon sometimes."
The nurse was probably in her fifties, although her steely grey hair made her look older. Her smile, however, had a vibrant youthfulness. "That'll work well with the winter coming. It's not pleasant being out on cold dark evenings."
"How's Dad?"
"He came back from his physiotherapy about ten minutes ago. I was about to go into his room to bathe him."
"Oh," Lois said. "Ah ... I can come back later."
"There's no need," the nurse said.
"No. Really. I wouldn't want to disrupt your routine. I know you're busy."
The nurse stepped closer. "Ms Lane," she said, that smile flashing warmly again. "I've watched you coming to visit your dad for a month now."
"I come as often as I can."
The nurse laid a hand on Lois's shoulder, and Lois had to control the instinct to flinch. "You're a wonderful daughter, and Sam is lucky to have you," the nurse said. She took her hand away. "But I can't help noticing that you seem so very uncomfortable when you visit."
"Isn't that normal?" Lois said with a spark of defensiveness. "This place takes some getting used to. Everyone is old or sick; some of them don't even know where they are."
"It's completely normal," the nurse said. "But my job is not just about helping the residents but also their families."
"I'm fine. Really."
"Most people find visiting difficult at first," she continued, as if Lois hadn't spoken. "There's so much to become accustomed to ... the new surroundings, your father's changed condition, the nurses always hovering around, the lack of privacy. The period of adjustment is hard for everyone."
All Lois could do was nod. If she'd tried to reply verbally, she would have burst into tears.
"I have a suggestion," the nurse said. "How about we go into your father's room together, and we -"
"I couldn't," Lois said quickly.
" - and we give him some pampering? We could wash his hair; give him a shave ... a manicure, even."
"My father has never had a manicure in his life."
The nurse didn't seem offended by the sharpness of Lois's tone. "Would you feel up to doing one of those things?"
"Why?" The question was out before she could stop it.
"Because doing something helps break the ice. It makes it this more normal."
"I don't normally wash my father's hair."
"It's hard to hold a conversation when the other person isn't saying anything," the nurse said. "Achieving something together can fill in all those gaps."
And there were always so many gaps.
The nurse leant forward with a girlish grin. "I have some lovely shampoo that will leave his hair soft and sweet smelling."
"He doesn't have much hair."
The nurse chuckled. "All the more reason to indulge what he does have."
Lois's defences crumbled, and she managed a not-completely-forced smile. "That sounds nice," she conceded.
"Oh, good," the nurse said with infectious enthusiasm. "I'm Veronica, by the way - 'Ronny' to my friends."
Lois wasn't sure if she counted as a friend, but she did know that the nurse's manner made her feel more relaxed than she had in the longest time.
"You go and see your dad," Veronica said. "I'll get the dreamy shampoo."
Lois went into her father's room, pulled up the chair, and sat beside his bed. "Hi, Dad," she said.
His head turned slowly in her direction. She looked into his slightly watery eyes.
"How are you?" she asked as she rubbed her fingers gently along his forearm.
The silence was back.
What to say next?
"Guess what, Dad?" Lois smiled - almost as if she believed he would smile back. "We're going to give you a makeover. We're going to wash your hair with some lovely shampoo, and you're going to feel great."
There was no response - nothing she could detect anyway.
She'd avoided pretending to be cheery. She'd worried that it would seem as if she was minimising the gravity of his situation. It seemed unfeeling to breeze in, say a few happy words, and breeze out again to continue her life when his life had been reduced to so little.
But was a little light-heartedness exactly what he needed? Could it bring some sunshine to his closed-in world?
His eyes were on her face, and Lois smiled. She put her hand on his cheek and looked directly into his eyes. "We're OK, Dad," she whispered. "The road ahead looks hellishly hard, but you're not alone."
Perhaps there was a response in the blink of his eyes.
Perhaps there wasn't.
Veronica breezed in like a dash of exuberance. "All set?" she asked. "Good. I'll get you a bowl of lovely warm water, and we'll start." She smiled at Sam. "You're going to smell so good and look so dashing, you're going to be dangerous," she predicted.
Lois looked at her dad.
And gave him a smile that was almost natural.
||_||
Lois stayed at the nursing home for nearly an hour. Veronica showed her how to wrap a towel around her dad's neck so the water wouldn't escape down his back. The nurse did most of the talking - easily blending instructions for Lois into a steady stream of entertaining chatter - while she cut and filed Sam's fingernails. Lois added a few comments, but mostly she concentrated on her task of washing her dad's hair. In a surprisingly short time, her initial reservations faded, and Lois discovered she was enjoying being able to connect with her dad in such a practical way.
Enjoying it.
Lois thought about it as she drove back to Bessolo Boulevard.
She hadn't enjoyed anything in so long, she hardly remembered what it felt like.
She'd smiled a little - even chuckled once or twice.
And if she'd had to make a guess - she'd say that her dad had enjoyed it, too.
She arrived back at the warehouse just as Uncle Mike's delivery guy pulled up with the prisoner's meal.
Lois accepted it from him with instructions to pass on her thanks to her uncle and then went into the compound.
Longford was in the staffroom, eating his meal.
He looked up as she walked in. "Do you want me to take that to him?" he asked.
"Finish your meal first," Lois said. "I have a few things to get ready before you go in."
He nodded and continued eating.
Back at her desk, Lois picked up a pen and paused. She wanted to say something to the prisoner, but what?
Give nothing away.
She didn't want to give him any information that he could use against her.
She didn't want him thinking - like so many men in this business - that because she was a woman, she was a soft target.
She had to be careful. She had to ensure that she didn't even hint at the possibility of dissension between those who were - supposedly - working together on the side of good.
She couldn't condemn Moyne or his actions.
Lois postponed the writing of the note and took out the new toothbrush and tube of toothpaste she had bought on her way from the nursing home. She had also bought a tin container with a hinged lid. She opened it and placed the toothbrush and toothpaste inside. She picked up the sample bottle of shampoo she had bought and added that.
She put the Neosporin in, too. Some of his wounds had almost healed, but some - the ones on his back where Moyne had pounded abrasions that were not yet recovered from Sunday's discipline session - were still looking sore.
She picked up the roll-on deodorant. Should she? How far was too far? Where was the line between supplying his basic needs and indulging him to the point where he began to feel a psychological advantage?
Was he looking for an advantage?
Or was he simply trying to survive a situation that would have crushed most people a long time ago?
Lois sighed deeply.
Every time she looked at the prisoner - he was reading the newspaper again - she was overwhelmed with uncertainty.
Could he possibly be an alien?
An alien committed to the destruction of the human race?
Could he have special powers that made it plausible for him to even contemplate such a plan?
Did he have allies? Allies who were coming? Were they the hope that had sustained him throughout Trask's years of abuse?
Lois put the deodorant back in her bag. She picked up the pen and scribbled a note - 'Will collect after use.' She put the paper in the little box and closed the lid.
On the way to the staffroom, she selected a clean towel and then filled the bowl with hot water.
Longford got the Achilles rod from the closet, and Lois unlocked the cell. He took only one step into the cell, delivered what needed to be delivered, and picked up the empty bucket and cleaning cloth from where the prisoner had left them.
Longford was out of the cell, and the door was locked less than twenty seconds after it had been opened.
Lois couldn't restrain herself from sprinting up the stairs. When she arrived at the window, the prisoner was crossing the cell towards the door.
He picked up the two containers and moved away from the door. He seemed wary of being near the door. Did he fear it would open at any moment to reveal someone wielding a rod?
He opened the lid of the tin container and immediately looked up towards the window. He waved in her direction - more explicit this time, less diffident.
What did that mean?
That he was becoming more confident she was going to treat him humanely?
Or that he was becoming more confident she was no threat to his plans?
She needed to know more about his life before Trask had captured him. If she could discover his identity, she could check for birth records. *Human* birth records. She could try to locate someone who had known him before Trask had damned him to life in a cell.
But she had to be careful. She knew so little. She was working in the dark - and that's where so much damage could be done.
She had to make the right decision.
If she concluded wrongly that he wasn't a threat, she would put the assistants' lives in danger.
Perhaps all the citizens of Earth.
If she concluded wrongly that he was a threat, she was going to perpetuate a terrible injustice.
She had to get it right.
*This* time, she had to get it right.
Lois picked up another of Trask's books and began to read.
Later, she glanced through the window to see that the prisoner, having eaten his meal, was leaning over the bowl, washing his hair. Next to the bowl was the uncapped bottle of shampoo.
Lois returned to Trask's research. Somewhere amongst the manic scrawl, there had to be some information that would actually be helpful.
||_||
He'd finished washing. He'd brushed his teeth. He'd replaced the soap, the washcloth, the shampoo, the new, undamaged toothbrush, the toothpaste, and the antiseptic ointment in the box.
He closed the lid and placed it in the bowl near the door.
It was such a simple adjustment - to leave his rations just inside the door, thereby curtailing their need to fully enter his prison and, in consequence, reducing his exposure to the poison.
Simple ... yet no one had done it.
Until now.
Of course, Trask and Moyne had deemed regular exposure an indispensible part of maintaining their supremacy over him.
He slipped his hand into the pocket of his shorts, and his fingers closed around the piece of paper. 'Will collect after use.'
Did that mean she didn't think he could be trusted to keep the box overnight?
Or did it mean she knew that Moyne had plastered the toothpaste on the wall?
Her office had been in darkness when Moyne had come into the prison and completed the act of vandalism. It seemed unlikely that she had witnessed it.
What had Moyne told her?
Did she trust Moyne?
She'd replaced the ruined toothbrush.
And for that, he wanted to thank her.
But how?
Then, he had an idea.
He went to the newspaper and ripped out eight letters from the various headlines.
He went back to the door and arranged the scraps of paper across the bottom of the box - 'THANK YOU'.
He closed the lid and carefully placed it in the bowl, just a few inches from the door.
He moved to the opposite corner of the prison and lay on the concrete.
He wriggled a little, trying to get more comfortable. He closed his eyes and waited for sleep to come.
For the first time since he'd walked into his mother's kitchen and collapsed with excruciating pain, he felt the timid approach of an almost-forgotten emotion.
Hope.
